I took a shot
I lost my aim
It trickles down
My sickle brain
A sticky sound like colored rain
strains through an ear of tin
to tap me on my values
and kick me in the shin
I tighten up
It's not the wind
Don't let the whistle in
Forego the spin
The compass wins
If north is just a whim
I'm an ivy shoot wheeling
in the shadow of limbs